Father's Day
by MiniSouffleCafe
Summary: When Peter makes a Father's Day card to show his appreciation for the Stark Internship, things go awry when it suddenly goes missing, along with several other of his belongings. But what starts as a search for a missing backpack quickly turns into a fiasco that will threaten not only Peter's undercover identity, but the relationships he has built in his life beyond high school.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: These characters are based off of those presented in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Therefore, this fic will contain minor spoilers for** _ **'Spider-Man: Homecoming.'**_ **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter One: Distress Signal**

It wasn't Peter's fault he had failed English II.

The robbery of the Manhattan Federal Credit Union had conveniently fallen on the day of the final, and while he didn't mind not writing a five-hundred word essay on the motifs of _'The Great Gatsby,'_ May Parker certainly wasn't pleased when she received a phone call from Midtown High informing her that her nephew would have to attend summer school.

"I can sympathize if the class was hard," she told him over breakfast. The bagels she toasted were burnt and only tolerable through copious layers of cream cheese. "But you had an _A_ before you suddenly disappeared on the last day! Couldn't you have let the police department handle this one?"

"Mr. Stark wanted me there," Peter replied sheepishly around a mouthful of scrambled egg. "And I couldn't have let those guys get away—think of all the college savings accounts that would've been depleted had I not helped out!"

"Think of the college savings account you're _betraying_ each time you skip school," she snapped back, fork clanging on her empty plate.

Ever since she had discovered what Peter was _really_ doing during his internship with Tony Stark, it took her every ounce of self-control not to march into the man's billion-dollar skyscraper and throttle him. Who did he think he was, converting young, impressionable minds into defenders of the human race? What happened to permission slips, and getting a signature from a parental guardian first?

She understood what being an Avenger meant to Peter, but it was difficult to be excited for him when she still saw him as a three year-old boy in need of a diaper change. Often times, it was that version of him she envisioned losing every time he failed to come home when he said he would. Some parents feared their children partied or drank themselves senseless. Little did they know that there were far worse things to worry about.

"I'm sorry," Peter said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I wasn't thinking about my final exams when I left. I was thinking about…how I could help. How I could stop people from getting hurt."

Despite herself, May smiled and reached across the table to squeeze his arm.

"I know. And that's what scares me the most."

He offered to do the dishes, but May insisted he get a move on so he wouldn't be late for school. It aggravated her enough that she had to remind him of that this far into summer vacation. Even as he slung his backpack over a shoulder and kissed her cheek, the sound of the apartment door slamming shut felt anything but normal. To her, it was the firing of a starting pistol, triggering her day-long marathon against her own disquieting imagination. Testing if she could remain level-headed knowing her nephew was a target of things beyond her understanding.

Gripping a soapy sponge in one hand and Peter's dirtied dish in the other, she scrubbed with a determined ferocity until she could see her own reflection in the plate's porcelain face. She never doubted the direction of her nephew's moral compass, never questioned his ability to discern right from wrong. What she did question, however, was his unwavering tendency to self-sacrifice.

Because while he may have promised to stop others from getting hurt, he was terrible at doing the same for himself.

* * *

"Penis Parker!" Flash Thompson greeted Peter when he arrived on campus. "Funny seeing you here. Last time I checked, you were still in the running for top ten percent of your class."

"Well good morning to you, too," Peter replied, wondering why on Earth his bothersome classmate was now escorting him to class. He knew well enough Flash hadn't followed him all the way here just to poke fun at him.

"I'm not here for summer school, just so you know. Mr. Harrington is offering me service hours and a strong recommendation letter to Princeton's Academic Honors Program for tutoring you unfortunate lot in AP Chem."

"Princeton, wow," he nodded, trying to dodge Flash's crude comments as he did the other students in the crowded hallway. Was failure a new trend at Midtown? It seemed as though everyone and their mother was stuffed into this single stretch of corridor. "Isn't the admission fee for that like crazy expensive?"

"I have my connections," Flash replied matter-of-factly. When Peter didn't respond, he added, "You missed our end-of-the-year decathlon party. Abe sang _'Total Eclipse of the Heart'_ on karaoke."

"Shoot, that's right." Peter had signed up to bring the cheese dip. He actually might've eaten most of it the night before. "Sorry about that."

"No worries. It's not like we missed you anyways."

Only half paying attention, he said, "Yeah, I didn't miss me either. Hey, I'll catch you later, okay?"

Ducking into his assigned classroom before Flash could say another word, Peter exhaled through his nose and sat himself down in the third row. He wasn't particularly interested in making friends with the other kids Ms. Higginbotham had failed, but loneliness seemed to follow him more faithfully than his own shadow as more students began filing in with their worn-out backpacks and lifeless expressions. They had been analyzing poems written by old white men who were inherently fascinated by blades of grass, or turnpikes in roads, and every time Peter turned to make a joke about them, there was no one on the receiving end. He wished Ned were here to substantiate his sense of humor.

The only other person who was just as pathetic as he was dragged her chair over to his desk, and Peter wasn't even sure he could consider her a friend.

"Are you regretting playing hooky on your last day of school yet?" Michelle asked by way of greeting. It was the first time she had addressed him in the entire two weeks he had been here. Peter, taken aback that she was actually talking to him, blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, come on. Don't play dumb—you're already in summer school for that. I know you didn't _actually_ contract a stomach bug."

Damn. And he thought that alibi was pretty good. He had forged a doctor's excuse and everything. Michelle continued to stare at him like he was a specimen under a microscope, and it was then when Peter wondered if the reason they weren't better friends was because of her natural talent to make him so utterly uncomfortable. He swallowed.

"Remind me again why you're here?" he asked instead, retrieving a pen from his backpack with one hand and shoving down his suit with the other. "I thought you liked reading."

"Exactly," Michelle replied, taking a long sip of her energy drink. "I liked it so much I didn't feel like leaving."

Peter wanted to point out the fault in her logic, but stopped short when the teacher crossed the threshold of the classroom carrying a stack of colored paper and a Starbucks. Ms. Higginbotham was one of the more interesting people he'd met at Midtown, her waist-length red hair a true testament to her fiery spirit and zest for travel. It made him feel slightly guilty that he had passed all of his other classes except for hers. He certainly would have if several hundred bank accounts weren't at stake.

"Hey guys, welcome," she said, smiling at her students as if they were a part of the Gifted and Talented program and not Midtown's flunking minority. "So here's the deal. I forgot to make copies this morning, and it's not like you guys wanted to annotate _'The Raven'_ anyways, so I figured we could just make cards instead! Father's Day is this Sunday if you're in need a low-budget gift."

"I don't have a dad," Michelle said before retreating to her own desk. Peter frowned. _At least that's one thing we both have in common._

Nevertheless, it didn't mean he couldn't participate. He'd just have to find another greeting. Maybe a _'THANKS FOR PUTTING UP WITH ME'_ card for Ned. Because while every fiber of his being urged him to sneak out the door and suit up, he knew he couldn't leave, not with his aunt's words from this morning still ringing in his ears. Not to mention the fact that Michelle's eyes were now boring a hole into the back of his skull.

"Peter!" Ms. Higginbotham exclaimed when he approached the spread of cardstock, crayons, and glue she had laid out for them. "Are you here to gather craft supplies or ask me for the hall pass so you can pretend to pee?"

"The first one," he replied, picking a piece of yellow construction paper from the stack. "I actually think I'm going to make a thank-you card for Mr. Stark."

The idea hadn't even occurred to him until the words were out of his mouth. His teacher's face lit up with sheer pride as she leaned forward in her desk chair.

"That's right! You're interning with him over at Stark Tower. How's that going, by the way?"

He thought back to the fiasco that was this entire year: holding together a ferry boat at Staten Island, walking on eggshells around Aunt May. Missing the homecoming dance so he could prevent his date's father from hijacking Mr. Stark's cargo plane, only to be impolitely crushed beneath an ungodly amount of concrete rubble.

"It's been great!" he said, despite all this. "It's very…physically demanding."

"Lots of stairs?"

"Something like that."

It was almost embarrassing how much effort he put into the card. What began as a simple thank-you note had somehow turned into an unintentional Father's Day address, Peter using words like _'role model'_ and _'appreciation.'_ He even drew himself and Mr. Stark side-by-side on the front cover, like kindergartners did when asked to illustrate their families. The billion-dollar man in the iron suit _was_ kind of like family to him, after all. Not like he'd ever say that out loud.

He had been so absorbed in choosing the right color blue for his suit that he almost didn't hear the shrill ringing coming from the bottom of his backpack. Murmuring his apologies towards the stares he received from every corner of the room, he pushed aside the cascade of homework assignments and nylon spandex to retrieve his cell phone. One look at the caller ID had him standing up from his desk.

He asked for the hall pass and didn't even hesitate before snatching his backpack and exciting the classroom, keeping his voice low as he answered the call. A small part of him wondered what Michelle would say upon his return. _If_ he returned.

"What took you so long to answer, kid? I've called you twice already," Tony said on the other end. "Isn't your generation in a codependent relationship with their smart phones?"

Peter wanted to point out _his_ codependent relationship with every other piece of technology on the planet, but held his tongue instead. "Sorry, I…I had to get out of class."

" _Class?_ What are you doing in class for? It's summer vacation! You're supposed to be hitting up parties on the Upper East Side, waking up in rooms that aren't your own."

"I'm not really a party person, Mr. Stark," he replied, wincing as his voice reverberated off of the lockers.

"Well, you should be. I can call my buddies at The Copacabana if you want, put you on their V.I.P. list."

 _He can do that?_ Peter didn't even know how to drive yet, let alone order a drink at a bar. He'd certainly spent enough New Year's Eves with Aunt May to know that drinking wasn't his thing, and champagne wasn't sweet like he'd imagined it'd be.

"I'm good, thanks."

"And they say I'm a bad influence," Tony said, sounding exasperated. "Anyways, I received a distress call from the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, and I need you to scope it out."

"What kind of distress signal?" he asked as he pushed open the door to the boy's restroom and dumped the contents of his backpack out onto the floor. Ironically, everything but his suit tumbled out. "Is it like a security breach or something? Is someone destroying the books?"

"Yes Montag, it's all very concerning." A sigh rippled down the line. "It could be anything, okay kid? Someone could've accidentally pulled the fire alarm, or a cat could be stuck in a tree. I don't get a whole lot of distress signals. Just head over there and check it out—people love it when they see their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man. It puts them at ease."

Peter didn't know he had that effect on people. If anything, he hoped to one day have his name strike fear in the hearts of his assailants. But he supposed this was good, too.

"On it, Mr. Stark. I promise I won't let you down."

"Alright, kid. Talk to you later—oh, and one more thing. Change your voicemail. It's infuriating."

Peter felt a smile creep onto his face. "Did you fall for my misleading voicemail, Mr. Stark—?"

"What? No," the man scoffed, as if he were incapable of being pranked. "I just—I'm saying that it's way too long. Takes me forever to leave a message, and I don't have that kind of time. Just change it, okay?"

With almost a billion-dollars' worth in technology, Peter assumed that Tony Stark would have other, more important things to worry about than his answering machine. Nevertheless, he agreed to rerecord one when he got the chance, hung up, and wrestled off his t-shirt with some difficulty. Even after all this time with the suit, the chills he got when putting it on never left him. His heart began beating so fervently that the sound of the restroom door creaking open didn't fully register until the student who had entered cleared their throat.

Peter didn't know what he regretted the most. Forgetting to lock the door on his way in, or not even bothering to enter a stall as he stood there in the open, his bare feet shoved into the pant-legs of his Spider-Man suit. The one thing he had managed to hide so stealthily for the past two semesters.

Because standing there, in the threshold of the boy's restroom with his mouth hanging open, was Flash Thompson.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello! Whether you are a previous reader or a new one, I hope you've enjoyed the first chapter of this new fic! I have a terrible habit of working on several projects at once, but in anticipating the next Avengers movie, I couldn't help myself. This is my first time writing in the MCU and working with this fantastic cast of characters, so please bear with me as I try and find my footing. Reviews are always appreciated, and I hope you have a lovely day!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Have you heard the new title for the next Spider-Man film yet? I must say I teared up a little upon seeing it; I can't wait. Thank you to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed! Your support truly means the world to me. Though I won't reveal any details here, this chapter does contain minor language and heavy themes, so please proceed at your own discretion.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Out of Sight, Out of Mind**

 _"Hello? Hellooo? Hello…hah! Just kidding, I'm not actually here right now. Leave a message after the beep, and I may or may not get back to you!"_

* * *

"Flash, Flash, I can explain—"

"I'd like to see you try," the kid smirked, leaning on the door frame as if he were about to observe a chicken run around with his head severed off. "What the hell are you doing, Parker? Last time I checked, they only made those for children."

Peter froze, looking down at his Spider-Man suit in dubiety. Did Flash see him as _so_ small, that the mere concept of him being a real superhero was but a bad joke? He should be grateful, he supposed, that his pitiful reputation at school had saved him.

"You're…exactly right!" Peter exclaimed, clutching at the suit with enthusiasm. "I had this—this _costume_ custom made for me. Yeah, I'm a huge Spider-Man fan, and I thought it'd be pretty funny if I wore it just to prank everybody."

"Well, you're not gonna fool anyone wearing _that_ thing. It looks cheap," Flash scoffed. "I'm just shocked you thought you could pull a stunt like this in the first place. Like anyone would believe you're the real Spider-Man."

"Yeah, right," Peter laughed, more relieved than offended. "I-It was a pretty stupid idea."

"Stupid ideas belong to stupid people," he said with a shrug, glad they could agree on something. "Well, I won't waste any more of my time interrogating you, so if you could hurry this up—?"

 _"Would you like to activate interrogation mode, Peter?"_

Flash's eyes narrowed to slits, whilst Peter's went wide as Karen's robotic voice rebounded off of the walls. The suit wasn't even on yet and she was already speaking, anticipating Peter's every need like an Internet search engine. Or Aunt May. Peter must have pressed something by accident.

"What was that?" Flash asked, his voice devoid of its dripping sarcasm.

"I don't know. The intercom, maybe?" Peter replied, an octave higher than usual. Slinking into the corner, he wanted nothing more but to disappear, but slipped on a piece of fallen notebook paper instead. It was ten times more difficult to maneuver around with his feet still stuck in each pant-leg of the suit.

 _"You seem to be having some difficulty walking,"_ Karen observed. _"Would you like me to increase the adhesion of your setules?"_

For someone who was supposed to be helpful in difficult situations, she was certainly being the opposite in this one, Peter thought to himself as he grumbled, "Karen, deactivate speaker mode. _Now,_ please."

 _"Certainly, sir."_

"Who the hell is Karen?" Flash demanded, coming fully into the restroom. "What kind of a sick joke is this?"

It wasn't until his eyes caught hold of the embossed emblem on Peter's suit, and the mask sprawled out among the gum wrappers and homework assignments, when things finally began to click in his brain. His jaw fell, as did the rest of his cocky expression.

"Flash…" Peter began, suddenly forgetting that he was still in his boxer shorts. "Whatever you're thinking, I swear it's _not_ true—"

"Oh my god," he murmured, brown eyes locking onto his in horror. "You're him. You're _actually_ him."

"I'm really not!"

"You even have some sort of Siri built into your suit to help you out!"

"No, you have it all wrong! S-She's just a part of my phone—"

"She called you _sir!"_ Flash was unraveling now, pacing around the boy's restroom in a frenzy. It was clear that the gears inside his head were now turning at an unstoppable speed. "It all makes sense now! The Stark internship, you ditching on us at decathlon. _You_ were the one who crashed my dad's car—!"

"You _have_ to be quiet!" Peter hissed, shoving his arms into the suit and letting it hang limp around his limbs. "Look, believe in whatever you want, but you can't tell _anyone_ about this, okay?"

"Or what?" Flash straightened, regaining some of his composure. "What's to say I just walk out of here and tell everyone your little secret, huh? You've been lying to us this entire time, Parker. You're bound to face the consequences sooner or later."

Peter faltered under his classmate's smug stare. It was bad enough knowing that Aunt May was worried sick about him every time he walked out the door. He didn't know if he could handle another hundred stunned reactions towards his secret identity. His reputation at school would change, for sure. But the thought of a hundred pairs of eyes trailing him through the hallways was enough to make his blood pressure spike.

"You don't want to tell anyone, because…because everyone will want to talk about it, which is the last thing you want. I'm just the lame, unpopular Peter Parker, remember? Shouldn't it just stay that way?"

Flash gave him a sidelong glance. He had a point. No one would believe him if he compared the dweeb to a national hero. He didn't even know if he was the real deal or not.

"It should stay that way," Flash agreed after a while. "But I'm still not entirely sold on keeping quiet about this. What's in it for me?"

Peter pictured Betty Brant reporting the school news his first day of junior year. _"Peter Parker was caught trying on a Spider-Man costume in the boy's restroom over summer vacation._ Someone's _ready to trick-or-treat! Now to Nurse Connolly on peanut allergy awareness…"_

He suppressed a frustrated groan, for he hated having to make bargains with people he didn't trust. It all felt too permanent, too risky. But he needed to ensure Flash's silence at whatever cost.

"You can have my spot on the decathlon team," Peter said, knowing how important it was to his classmate. "I can move down to first-alternate."

Flash crossed his arms across his chest, considering the offer. With the amount of events he missed, Peter didn't even deserve to be _recognized_ on the decathlon team.

"Deal," he spat, shaking hands with Peter. The feeling of the suit lingered on his palm a moment longer than he'd have liked. Suppressing a shudder, he said, "Now get out. I still need to take a piss, and I don't need you standing out here like some sort of insectile freak."

Peter grew quiet for a moment. His suit drooped around him like a parachute.

"Spiders aren't insects, though. They're arachnids."

" _Out!"_

Peter hastily gathered his belongings strewn onto the floor and stuffed them into his backpack, including his card for Mr. Stark. He was just glad Flash hadn't noticed it during their confrontation.

 _"How sweet is this?"_ Flash cooed inside his head. _"What's next_ — _are you gonna start calling Black Widow your mommy now?"_

Pushing himself out of the restroom, Peter tried to levy the consequences of having Flash discover his secret identity. He certainly hadn't meant for it to happen. In fact, Flash was the _last_ person he wanted finding out about this. Of all the people who could've walked through that door, why did it have to be _him_ — _?_

The bell rang. Cursing under his breath, Peter whipped his head around in hopes of finding some sort of escape route. He really wasn't on top of his game today. Pressing his hand to the emblem affixed over his chest, he felt his Spider-Man suit fully activate, the material constricting around his limbs in under a second.

He aimed his web-shooters at an overhead ventilator shaft, dislodged the medal graft with a swift tug, and leapt into its open mouth without a sound. Chattering students flooded the hallway below like an undercurrent, unbeknownst to the escape that had played out just seconds before. Peter grinned to himself from beneath the shadows. _Out of sight, out of mind._

And he wanted to keep it that way.

* * *

When he arrived at the New York Public Library, he understood the intent behind the distress signal. A crowd of people had already gathered on the sidewalk, craning their necks towards the blinding afternoon sun. Except they weren't admiring the library, or the blue sky that stood behind it like a school picture backdrop.

Instead, all eyes were affixed on the teenage girl about to jump off the edge of the building. And everyone was screaming at her to stop.

Peter bound animatedly from rooftop to rooftop, but froze in his tracks once he beheld the spectacle playing out before him. He was accustomed to people inflicting pain onto others, their expressions cold and menacing. This girl's was anything but. In fact, as Peter squinted at her from across the street, he could see nothing but fear splayed out on her face. He'd encountered all types of people before, but never one who wanted to inflict pain onto themselves. It suddenly grew difficult to swallow.

" _ALIYAH!_ " someone shrieked at her from below. A friend, most likely. Peter asked Karen to activate enhanced reconnaissance mode so he could better hear her through the orchestrations of city traffic. He immediately wished he hadn't.

"Aliyah, please get down from there. Don't do this, please, don't do this. Oh, god—"

Switching it off, Peter bolted from the rooftop, and leapt off the edge without a second thought. Wind roared in his ears as the sounds of oncoming taxi cabs and hollering pedestrians dissolved into white noise. Colliding into the top of a trailer-truck (he could never quite stick the landing), he quickly regained his footing, and took another leap towards the library, where his face struck the concrete of the building with a _smack._ Figures swam behind his eyelids as he groaned.

 _That's gonna leave a bruise._

Shoving the searing pain into the back of his mind, Peter clung to the surface of the New York Public Library and began climbing. Intrigued murmurs emerged from the crowd as he scaled the walls with unfathomable ease.

"Isn't that the kid from the news?" one asked, shielding their eyes from the sun. "The one who saved the elevator full of students in Washington?"

"How the hell is he doing that?"

Peter heard none of this from up above, his focus only on the pair of worn sneakers that teetered dangerously atop the ledge of the building. The girl's pale blonde hair traveled in wisps around her hollowed face, her plaid button-up and jacket flapping like sails around her frail figure. He was afraid that the wind alone would be the cause of her downfall.

"I'm guessing you're Aliyah?" he asked her once he reached the top. It took a minute for her to acknowledge him, which was understandable. It wasn't often a boy with spider-like abilities suddenly approached you, lest of all atop a five-story building.

Her lips drawn into a thin line, the girl tilted her chin downwards in a nod. Peter took that as a sign to go ahead and introduce himself.

"I'm Spider-Man, nice to meet you," he greeted, waving at her from where he balanced a few feet away. She shook her head in disapproval.

"What are you doing here?"

Her voice was barely audible through the gusts of wind and the distant shouting. When she finally met his eye, Peter analyzed her stare through his mask and saw a culmination of stony indifference and undeniable dread. As if clambering all the way up here would do nothing to change her mind. As if someone had already made the decision for her.

"You seemed to have gathered quite an audience," he murmured instead, squatting down on the ledge. He dropped his gaze several feet below and instantly felt his stomach recoil. Swallowing, he stammered out, "I-I'm actually not that great with heights. Does the air feel thinner up here? It feels thinner—"

" _Stop it,_ " Aliyah ground out between her teeth, her hands curling into fists. "I know what you're trying to do, and it's not gonna work."

"No seriously, I'm afraid of heights," Peter told her, suddenly lightheaded. Aliyah let out an exasperated sigh, and he realized that stalling probably wasn't the best way to approach the situation. His expression grew solemn.

"Aliyah—can I call you that? Please, think about what you're doing," he pleaded, trying not to let the panic seep into his voice. "Let me help you."

"What, do you have a therapist you'd like to refer me to? A support group?" she snapped back, though it sounded wobbly. "I've already made my decision."

"It doesn't mean you have to follow through with it. There's a whole bunch of people down there who need you, who _want_ you to be safe—"

"And what about what _I_ want?" she demanded, flicking her hair away from her face so she could glare at him. "How dare you come up here and tell me what's best for me? You don't even know me! You don't…you don't understand," she said, exasperated. "You don't _get it_."

Peter grew silent. He never considered what she might have experienced prior to this moment, and felt incredibly stupid for not even bothering to ask. What had convinced her that life wasn't worth living anymore? Why—despite the sea of concerned faces below—did she speak as if she couldn't be helped?

He tried to put himself in her shoes, and figured that if several people were screaming at _him,_ he'd be vexed, too. All of those comments and outside opinions had to have been more overwhelming than helpful. Taking a deep breath, he took a small step forwards, and tried again.

"Okay, well maybe you can try explaining it to me? So I can understand, at least a little bit?"

Aliyah scoffed, craning her neck towards the sky. There wasn't a cloud in sight.

"We're standing on the edge of a five-story building, and you want to make small-talk?"

Peter shrugged. "It's because you're right, I have no idea what you're going through."

Her eyes widened. It had been so long since she heard those words being spoken to her. _You're right._ All this time it had been the exact opposite _. You're wrong for wanting this. You're wrong for refusing help. You're wrong, wrong, wrong._

"And for what it's worth," he added sheepishly. "I'd be pretty bothered too if some weirdo in a spandex suit just came up to me and started talking."

Aliyah let out an unexpected laugh, her eyes lighting up for a split-second before clouding over again. Peter held onto that look for as long as he possibly could.

"My dad died in a car accident," she told him, her gaze trained on the window right across from her. The blinds were drawn shut, and if she squinted hard enough, she could make out her own reflection. It was barely recognizable. Had she really become that thin?

"Oh," Peter replied, not knowing what else to say. She nodded, feeling that familiar upsurge of tears working its way up her body.

"Yeah."

"How long ago?"

"Four months," she answered, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "People told me it would get better, that whatever I was feeling would eventually come to pass. They talked about me like I was going through some kind of phase, and that I had to get over it as soon as possible."

The anger in her voice was evident now. Peter watched as she let out a frustrated cry, as if she wanted nothing more but to expel the grief from her body so she wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. Tears rolled down her cheeks; she made no move to wipe them away.

"And what's even _more_ infuriating i-is that no one even bothers to act like they miss him. As if just because he's dead he suddenly never existed."

"…I'm sorry," he replied, knowing his words weren't much help, but saying them anyways. "What kind of things do you miss about him?"

Aliyah looked to him in surprise, shocked he even bothered to ask. Most people just offered their condolences and left it at that, as if asking questions about her father was like navigating a minefield. She was tired of people treating her like she was some sort of fragile thing. She was broken, and could come to terms with that. But she didn't need her ears covered whenever anything remotely upsetting was said. Even as a child, she'd hated that.

"I miss…debating with him," she sniffled, pieces of him resurfacing one-by-one. "He taught me how to win an argument by reasoning my way out. I miss listening to his old CDs on the way to school, and eating breakfast with him every Sunday."

For a moment she appeared lost in thought. Peter wondered how long she'd kept those memories of her father bottled-up, the pressure within her building up until it eventually led to here, to this very rooftop.

"These past four months have been the _shittiest_ four months of my entire life. And I am so _sick_ of people telling me that they shouldn't be," she choked out, shoulders shuddering with a sob. "I just want my dad. I just want to see my dad again. Please, I-I can't take this anymore…"

Aliyah was swaying now, the remainder of her strength losing against the wind. Any second now and she would be tumbling through it towards the ground. Peter was running out of time. Heart hammering in his chest, he said the first thing that came to mind.

"I-I don't know if this will help," he began, holding his hands out as if that would be enough to keep her there. "But I've had to grow up without my parents, too. And it's not easy, I get that. No one understands that more than I do."

A surge of triumph shot through him when she met his eyes. They were red-rimmed and puffy. A warm shade of blue. He licked his lips and continued.

"Sometimes, I feel like I never even knew them," he admitted. "I know what they look like, and what their names are. How they made me feel. But that's about it."

 _Careful Spider-Man, your Peter Parker is showing,_ he thought to himself. But perhaps what she needed right now wasn't a superhero, but a regular kid. Who had more or less of an idea what she was going through.

"Those memories you have of your dad? They matter. And you _need_ to be alive so that others can remember him like you do."

Aliyah's gaze returned to her shoes. The crowd of faces beneath them.

"If I step down from here…" she started, her jaw tightening with indignation. "It's going to be so much harder. I have to… _face_ things without him. And that scares me."

Peter rubbed his hands together. He didn't want to tell her that everything was going to be okay, because she was right. It _was_ going to be difficult living without her dad. And that was a pain he couldn't alleviate, no matter how much he wanted to.

"I-I had this fortune cookie one time," he said instead. "It said something along the lines of, ' _We are made to persist.'_ And I don't know why I thought that'd be inspirational; I'm literally giving you advice from a baked good—"

He was cut off by her laugh. This time, she didn't try to push it down. It filled her face and brightened her eyes, and Peter didn't think he could ever be more relieved that someone found him funny.

"I'll remember that," she told him after a while. "Thanks."

"…so does that mean you'll step down?"

The determination in her blue eyes faltered as she beheld the bustling vein that was Fifth Avenue. She truly believed it was the last thing she'd ever see when she woke up that morning. But when she looked to this stranger in the mask, who couldn't have been much older than her, she realized that maybe she didn't want the responsibility of deciding where life ended and another began. That there were far better things to be responsible for.

His outstretched hand was an invitation to live another day. And maybe another after that. There mere idea of navigating it without her father to hold her hand was enough to make her stomach twist. But at least she now knew, or rather _understood,_ that she wasn't entirely alone. The boy standing next to her was a testament to that.

Aliyah took a shaky breath as she edged towards him, her extended hands a mere few inches away from his. _You're almost there,_ she told herself, blood pounding in her ears. _Just one more step—_

Her foot slipped.

Peter didn't know what hit him first—the gut-wrenching surprise on her face, or her piercing scream, but he immediately sprang into action. Firing his web-shooter, he secured himself to the roof, and dove after her. Within seconds, he caught her in a crushing embrace, holding on to her frail body with all the strength he could muster as they dangled in mid-air, suspended hundreds of feet above the ground. Aliyah was shaking.

"It's okay, you're okay. I gotcha," he reassured her, though his calm disposition was in no way a reflection of what he actually felt. "Why couldn't we have just used the stairs?"

"How are you doing that?" she asked between breaths, her eyes widening at the synthetic material stretching from his web-shooter. Peter met the direction of her stare and shrugged.

"It was a science experiment."

"But that's impossible," she said, astonished as he clung to the wall with nothing but his bare hands. "Gravity doesn't work like this. It doesn't just _exempt_ certain people."

"Wanna bet?" he asked, flashing her an impish grin she couldn't see. "Watch this."

Detaching his webs from the roof, Peter had her climb onto his back before scaling down the building, picking up speed as they descended. He really should've been more careful, as Aliyah's grip had gone from tight to vicious, but he didn't stop until he felt the concrete beneath his feet again. When they reached the ground, she felt faint, her heart hammering beneath her shirt.

She was immediately swept up into a series of arms, sounds of relief coming from the crowd that had appeared so tiny to them just seconds before. A police car blared somewhere in the distance.

" _Thank you,_ " a girl said as she sobbed into Aliyah's shoulder. Peter realized it was the girl who had screamed her name beforehand. Her voice was hoarse now as she cried, "Oh god, _never_ do that again! You scared the shit out of me!"

"I'm sorry," Aliyah said, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I promise, it won't happen again."

Peter shifted uncomfortably on his feet as he watched the exchange unfold before him. Anticipated looks came from the other spectators, as if expecting him to say something or take the credit for saving Aliyah's life. But attention was never his intention behind doing these things in the first place. He was just glad she was okay.

The girl turned from her friend to look him in the eye. Was it possible to understand the person beneath the mask without seeing their face? He froze beneath her red-rimmed stare as she approached.

"Who _are_ you?"

Peter was silent for a moment, seeing the opportunity. He knew he wouldn't take it.

"Like I said, I'm just your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man."

"Right," Aliyah said, letting out a huff of amusement. "Okay—who are you _really?_ "

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he imagined what it would be like if he just removed the mask and introduced himself. Peter Parker and Spider-Man would suddenly become the same person. Was he prepared for that kind of attention? He didn't have many choices as a teenager, but this was one of them. Sometimes, facing that choice day after day felt like more than he could handle.

"I'm sorry," he said after a while. "I can't say."

Aliyah grew quiet, trying to come to terms with his response. It was difficult being indebted to someone whose name you didn't even know. Nevertheless, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and nodded.

"Well, it was worth a shot," she replied dryly, hands retreating to her pockets. There were faces all around them, awaiting. For what, she didn't have a clue. Lowering her voice, she asked him, "Do you really think I can do it?"

"I know you can," he reassured her, directing his web-shooter at an adjacent scaffolding. If he was careful enough, he could make his exit without breaking it. "Be brave, Aliyah. I mean, I think you already are, but it doesn't hurt to be reminded every now and then."

"And will I be seeing you again?"

"I dunno, maybe. I'm always out and about," he said, shooting his synthetic webbing towards the iron-wrought framework. It caught hold without fail. "Don't worry too much about me, though! You've got your whole life ahead of you."

Maybe it was the mask that gave him a sense of authority, or a safe place for him to be vulnerable without necessarily being identified, but he found talking to be whole a lot easier as Spider-Man than as his usual, unglorified self. In fact, he had been wondering for months now if he was enough. If _Peter Parker_ could live up to the hype of who Spider-Man really was. What if he showed his face, only for others to be disappointed in what they saw?

He wasn't exactly the epitome of heroism. In real life, he fumbled over his words and still had trouble discerning left from right. What began as a need to keep himself hidden from Aunt May was now an issue of whether or not people would accept him for who he really was. Peter never doubted his reputation would change if he revealed his identity. It was in what way that scared him the most.

That fear remained with him long after he disappeared into the jungle of skyscrapers and billboards.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Front Page News**

"You sure know how to make headlines, don't you?" Tony asked him through the phone, the sound of newspaper crinkling in the near distance. "How did your aunt react to this?"

"Oh, you know," Peter said, pressing the pack of frozen vegetables to his cheek. The place just above his jawline had turned purple from where he smacked his face against the building. "She got mad at me for standing so close to the edge of a five-story library. And after taking away my computer privileges for a week, she said she was proud of me for doing the right thing."

"Fifteen years-old and you still get your computer taken away from you?"

"Sixteen in August. And…yes."

It had been two days since Aliyah's near-death at the New York Public Library, and it was all the media seemed to be talking about. _'INCREDIBLE SPIDER-MAN SAVES GIRL FROM FIVE-STORY FALL'_ the front page said. Aunt May saw it while she was clipping coupons. Peter didn't know what surprised him more, the fact that she bought a paper, or that you could buy twelve rolls of Charmin Ultra Soft for only $1.99.

"She's really not letting you off easy with this whole 'fighting-crime' thing, is she?"

"She just wants me to be safe, is all," Peter reassured him. He purposely left out the part where he'd missed nearly half an hour of school so he could respond to the distress signal. Because that was another reason he'd gotten his computer taken away. But Mr. Stark didn't need to know that.

"Well as long as you're in one piece, kid, I'd say you did a good job."

Peter straightened from where he sat on his bed, his face widening into a grin. And then:

"I can _hear_ you smiling. You know that, right?"

He rearranged his face into an almost purposeful frown before saying, "Sorry, sir."

Peter never turned a blind-eye when it came to press coverage. In fact, a part of him was proud of seeing his good deeds splayed on ink by the New York Times. But often times it felt like he was celebrating alone. It was only when one of the adults in his life (or Ned, for that matter) acknowledged and validated his actions as Spider-Man that he felt he was on the right track.

For a rocky few months, he couldn't get one foot out the door without feeling a sharp surge of guilt. Tip-toeing around Aunt May was like holding his breath, but leaving her with that severely disapproving look on her face was even worse. She and Peter rarely ever fought, but when she caught him in the suit the day he got it back, she saw not its grandiosity, but all the dangers it presented.

 _"I don't want you leaving this house for a month!"_

 _"But May, there are people out there who need me—!"_

 _"Fifteen year-olds don't belong on the front-lines, lest of all_ my _fifteen year-old! Did Mr. Stark put you up to this?! Because I_ swear _—"_

 _"No May please, don't blame this on Mr. Stark! It's not his fault!"_

 _"He clearly thought it was fine to go behind my back and have you throw yourself in front of every danger imaginable. I feel like I'm trying to hold on to you Peter, and the fact that you kept me in the dark about this…"_ She was shaking her head at this point, blinking back tears. _"That day of the ferry boat? I kept asking myself if I was going to lose you. Now I feel like it's a matter of_ when. _I don't like that feeling, Peter. No one with a child should ever,_ ever _have to ask themselves that."_

It was hands-down the most brutal argument they'd ever had. And as most arguments went, there was no clear right or wrong by the end of it. Peter wasn't going to relinquish his duties as Spider-Man, and Aunt May wasn't going to throw her full support behind him, either. An icy tolerance was their only resort aside from complete verbal annihilation.

Nearing the third week of their dreaded stalemate of a fight, Peter had crept out of his room in the middle of the night to nab a snack from the kitchen, only to find his aunt sound asleep on the couch. The side lamp's orange glow was almost as serene as her expression, the lines of distress on her face gone as she slept. A collection of newspaper sheets and magazine clippings surrounded her on all sides. They all had one thing in common.

 _'DEATH-DEFYING FIGURE SAVES ELEVATOR FULL OF STUDENTS IN U.S. CAPITOL'_

 _'ADRIAN TOOMES, 46, ARRESTED AND TAKEN INTO FBI CUSTODY'_

 _'ACTIONS OF A FACELESS HERO: WHAT WE KNOW OF SPIDER-MAN SO FAR'_

It was her effort to understand, or at least fill in the blanks of her nephew's hidden identity for the past year. Peter didn't know how to return the favor other than promising her he wouldn't die, which was a standard for most people already. She'd have a much larger field to cross before coming to a begrudging acceptance.

He found Aunt May in a similar position when he emerged from his bedroom that morning, her hand resting over the spine of a book. Careful not to stir her, Peter removed her glasses and the novel and set them both on the coffee table. He draped her in a blanket before leaving.

"See you after school, May," he whispered, and locked the door behind him.

"How'd you earn that nasty thing?" Michelle asked him on the way to class. She wrinkled her nose at the pack of sodden vegetables lying limp in his hand. He forgot he was still holding it.

"I…fell on my face."

It was more convincing than saying he got into a fight. With a concrete wall. Thankfully, she didn't question it, just mumbled something about falling a little better next time before continuing on.

Flash's eyes, however, were swimming with questions when he saw him. But he wasn't about to put himself in the position to ask, and Peter would rather wreck the other half of his face before answering him, anyway.

* * *

Of all the things Yael had hoped to gain when moving to New York, a man who talked in his sleep was the last of them.

She shook her hair out with a white towel, long ringlets of ivory black dampening her only clean work blouse as she watched, in dismay, the conversation unfurling before her.

"No ma'am, I am _not_ a Mets fan…" Marty mumbled in between snores, his rear end up poised in the air like some doleful dog. "What do you mean you have no bok-choy left? I swear…if I see it gone _one_ more time—"

Yael pitched the rag towards his sad figure and watched as it hit him in the back, sending him into a series of confused spasms. He was a security guard with more muscles than his personality gave him credit for, and Yael had told herself on multiple occasions that she would end it today. Needless to say, today had not yet come.

"Get up. I made coffee already," she told him, fastening her earrings. "And wash your mug this time. I'm not your mother."

"…I didn't think you were," he replied sleepily, turning over on his back so he could see her. She gathered her bag and coat and headed for the door without a moment's hesitation.

"Lock up when you leave?" she asked over a shoulder as she crossed the threshold.

"Did you want to grab lunch or—?"

But the door was already shut. Her coworkers told her that maybe if she were a little nicer to the people she dated, she'd find someone who actually wanted to remain in ties with her for more than three weeks. But that was not how Yael enjoyed her relationships. She was one for instant gratification; if they couldn't tolerate three weeks of her being her natural self, then they didn't need to stay. Never in her life had she ever accomplished anything by being sweet. It wasn't how she got her job. It wasn't how she got permission from her mother to leave home. And it wasn't how she was able to secure her writing for the front page of the New York Times.

She readjusted her shoulder-bag away from the wailing toddler on the subway and clutched to the only available pole in the car that morning. Another reason she had been so hasty to leave was because today was her department meeting with Clyde Hansen, their executive editor, to strategize and pitch ideas. Everyone was eyeing to steal their fair share of topics: the upcoming World Cup, foreign affairs, whether South America would conquer malaria or not. Yael would need to ensure she didn't get stuck with something completely monotonous, like the five topmost reasons to go trail hiking in June. Health-conscience as she was, she doubted her compilation caught the eyes of information-hungry Americans.

Thanking the doorman on her way in, Yael took the stairs two-by-two and felt her adrenaline kick in with each step. Despite the almost palpable stress in the building, she enjoyed its high-energy and open spaces. It was designed for free, creative thinking, and she credited the quality of her writing to the tall picture window that stood outside her cubicle. The amount of times she gazed out that window in search of words was enough for an outsider to think she wasn't doing her job. But daydreaming an integral part of the process.

"I sometimes wonder if there's anything other than coffee in there," Eugene said by way of greeting when she arrived, jutting his chin to the silver Yeti in her hand. He was already sitting across from her in his tailored vest and polo-style shoes, his stylus parallel to the tablet that sat ready and open to go for the morning's meeting.

"Do you have a breathalyzer on you, too?" she accused dryly, taking her seat directly across from him.

"I'm just saying that you never drink the coffee here at work," he replied, taking a compulsory sip from his own mug. "Does the idea of a communal pot bother you?"

"Did you make it?" He nodded. "Then there's your answer."

"Okay, let's get started," Clyde announced on his way in, a Starbucks already at hand as he took his place at the front of the room. "I've got another meeting to attend to at nine, and I'd like to keep my punctuality in check."

The remainder of the people who had lingered out in the hallway now filed in, taking their seats and getting their last words of conversation in before the meeting started. The room fell quiet not a moment later.

"I'd first like to congratulate Miss Boschwitz on her front page debut yesterday," their editor began with a pointed look at Yael. It was difficult not to smile as the room broke out into a polite applause. " _'INCREDIBLE SPIDER-MAN SAVES GIRL FROM FIVE-STORY FALL'_ sold three-thousand copies and counting. People love a good success story, and you certainly delivered, Yael. Good work."

The young journalist didn't know what surprised her more, the fact that three-thousand people had read her work, or that her executive editor had actually remembered her title word-for-word. To say she was hungry for praise may have been an exaggeration, but she certainly didn't mind being under Hansen's spotlight a moment longer. Tomorrow would belong to another person, but today was hers.

"Just doing what I was paid to do," she replied humbly, nodding to everyone in thanks. The way Eugene's mouth twisted in disdain told her how much he wanted to mock her right now.

"Well, another day, another edition, so we need to continue publishing content that will keep everybody on their feet," Clyde said, unbuttoning his blazer before sitting down. Everyone's cue to pick up their utensils and start writing. "So? Ideas? None are bad, but some just may embarrass you."

"A statistical approach on who'll win the World Cup this year," someone said further down the table.

"Good. I want a list of credible resources on that article for approval before you start writing."

"What if we write a list of preventative measures on wild-fires, targeting our audience in California?"

"Or we could just, you know, leave it to California," the one next to him replied. The rest of the room sniggered. Yael tapped her pen on her blank legal pad and tried to concentrate.

"The intention is there, but see how many articles have already done something similar and get back to me, okay?" Clyde said, and that was that. "Next."

"Something for health junkies to indulge in," Eugene said as introduction, raising his hand and pushing his black swoop of hair with the other. "An international study on the various health habits of people around the world. We can compare standards, eating patterns."

The room murmured in intrigue. Yael drew in a sharp breath in an attempt to sound curious.

"Interesting," Clyde began, folding his hands atop the desk. "And how do you expect to gather your information?"

But Eugene was already one step ahead of him. He propped up his tablet and swiveled it around for everyone to see.

"I've already made my list of potential interviewees. Credited blog owners from each continent, nutritionists practicing in different areas. I just need a thumbs-up and I can begin making calls to schedule online interviews."

Sounds of impressed approval came from the reporters around them, Yael scratching the back of her neck with her pen as she tried not to let the sounds of her coworker succeeding feed her inherited supply of envy. Why she had to be the only person in the room with a brilliant idea, she didn't know. Perhaps it would get her mother to finally admit that she was proud of her. Maybe she was just a stupidly selfish person.

"Quite a list you have here," Clyde murmured over the rim of his spectacles. "Very prepared indeed. How quickly can you have this ready?"

"I'd need about a week," Eugene replied matter-of-factly. "It's been a project of mine for a while now, and everything's lined up and ready to go."

"Well if you need no other preparations, then I give my consent for you to begin your research," he said, flashing him a quick smile. "To stem from that, you could even do a follow-up piece on subjects who are willing to integrate these habits into their day-to-day life—"

"Uh, Mr. Hansen?" Yael blurted, not knowing what she was doing as she shot her hand up in the air. All eyes looked to her as she lowered it and tried to cover the blank page of her notebook as much as possible. "I actually have my own project that I've been working on."

"Oh?" he asked, his attention from Eugene dropping like a fly. Her gut twisted, alongside her coworker's expression from across the table. What was wrong with her this morning? "Do intrigue me."

Yael tried not to falter under the expecting eyes of everybody in the meeting room. Could they tell she had nothing prepared? Could they sense the need to one-up her coworker from her pressed clothes and plastered smile? Thinking back to her headline from the day prior, she said the first thing that came to mind.

"Spider-Man Unmasked."

The room fell silent this time. Someone laughed from somewhere in the back.

" _You're_ going to catch Spider-Man?" Eugene challenged dryly, crossing his arms. "What are you going to do? Request an interview with him? Ask him politely?"

Ignoring his snide comments, she said, "I know it's a large premise to follow through with, but people live for this kind of material. Tony Stark. The Avengers. This city has been through hell and back time and time again, and everyone's looking to the same group of people to save it. Isn't it time they finally knew the face behind their newest addition?"

"He's on Neighborhood Watch," Eugene retorted dryly. "Hardly an Avenger."

"Even better. Everyone loves a fledgling superhero."

"The appeal is certainly there," Clyde cut in, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "And how will you go about your research? You'll need to provide the public with a name and a face, or else the story loses its purpose."

"I'm aware of that," Yael promised him. "We'll send out an advertisement in search of information. We'll track his movements, follow the crime alerts throughout the city. He's bound to respond to one of them."

"No one will buy it if you can't find out who the kid is," Eugene told her.

"And _everyone_ will buy it if I do."

"It's an ambitious undertaking, but I'll permit it, under the condition that if you fail, you have a backup piece ready for edit and publication," Clyde told her strictly. "I'll give you three weeks. Is that sufficient time?"

"Yes sir," she reassured him, ultimately unsure if she just got her big break or committed herself to digging her own grave. Perhaps both. _You've already made the front page,_ she reminded herself. _If you can make it once, you can make it again._

The meeting continued. New ideas were brought to light. But Yael remained in her own little world, carried from her surroundings by the wind of her own ideas, the words she sought to write plastered on the front page of every kiosk and stand in New York City. She could already see the headlines.

 _'SPIDER-MAN UNMASKED: THE FACE OF AMERICA'S YOUNGEST SUPERHERO'_

It had a nice ring to it.

* * *

 **A/N: And so the plot thickens! I didn't expect this story to include this many original characters, and while we will see through Peter's eyes through the bulk of it, I think it's important that our opposing side be represented as well. I just got back from traveling and am jet lagged beyond words, but writing all the more with the free time! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter; have a lovely day. :)  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: The Guy in the Chair**

It had taken Peter a long time to get over Liz.

Even then, he still wasn't entirely convinced that he was. Because before her father, before he discovered who he was and what he was doing, she was just Liz. Student Council President. Decathlon team member. That girl everyone associated with her kind personality and go-getter spirit. _That_ was the person Peter missed the most. And what frustrated him the most was that, despite the fiasco that was the night of homecoming, no amount of replaying resulted in him doing anything differently. He didn't regret ditching. But his actions had sacrificed the one friendship he'd wanted to make sophomore year.

"Cute girl at ten-o-clock. I repeat, cute girl at ten-o-clock," Peter muttered to no one in particular, maybe Karen, if she was still listening to him. He was currently on stakeout in front of a jewelry store on Tenth Avenue, but had been pacing the adjacent fire escape for twelve minutes, occasionally catching his reflection in the store windows from a certain angle. The girl with a headful of curls and pink headphones was the only noticeable person on the block.

 _"Would you like me to amplify her a greeting from across the street?"_ Karen asked. Peter balked as he swung up on the railing and did a few pull-ups.

"What would you say?" he asked her incredulously. " _'Hi! I think you're really pretty!'"_

 _"Greeting accepted."_

"No no no!" Peter corrected himself, his grip slipping as he fumbled for words. "I take it back! Don't say anything!"

There was a brief respite from the program built into his suit. Sometimes, he thought that Mr. Stark had designed her to keep him company more than provide him with assistance in times of need.

 _"Why?"_

"Because she might hear me!" he hissed under his breath, as if that weren't already obvious. Sitting back down, he stuck his legs through the bars, and mumbled to himself, "I really need Ned to go back in there and remove the speaker system. Who thought that speaker system was a good idea?"

 _"Mr. Stark installed it upon noticing that you failed your most recent hearing screening at school."_

"I failed because I fell into the Hudson River!" he defended, a shiver working its way up his spine at the memory. "And that ear infection really hurt."

Mr. Stark had been giving him more assignments throughout the city this past week under the assumption that he had nothing better to do. He even had Peter's phone hooked up to receive any alerts of nearby distress signals so he wouldn't have to relay them (out of convenience on the billionaire's part, though Peter swore it was because he was proving himself more responsible). Today was the jewelry store on Tenth, where the most exciting cause of commotion was Peter's growling stomach. He'd missed lunch period for this.

"Do you think we could rig this thing to carry snacks?"

 _"It's a skin-tight suit, Peter."_

"Yeah, I figured," he said disdainfully, the hairs on the back of his neck perking up when a man and a woman approached the window of the store with dark sunglasses and large handbags. Ducking behind the stairs of the fire escape (the bright suit probably wasn't his best choice when going on stakeout), Peter watched as they silently observed oncoming traffic before entering the store in broad daylight.

"It's go-time," he murmured to himself, readjusting his web-shooters before taking the leap.

When he got back to school, he crawled through the ventilator shaft directly above his locker, his chest still heaving with jagged breaths from the commotion he'd stirred just moments before. He'd managed to remain relatively unscathed, though he couldn't say the same for his adversaries. He was just glad the police had arrived when they did—he didn't know how much longer he could've gone bashing that poor guy's head into the marble tile.

Still attached to the ceiling, Peter aimed his web-shooter at his locker door and fired, the synthetic webbing hitting the aluminum door with a _splat._ A strangely hollow sound emerged from within. Furrowing his brow, he tugged on the webbing. The door swung open. His locker was empty.

 _"What—?!"_

He fell out of sheer surprise, his body hitting the floor in a tangle of his own limbs. He didn't think bullies were still on-hours during summer vacation, but apparently anyone was still fair game. Scrambling back to his feet, he grasped at the dark shadows within his locker, as if doing so would somehow conjure his belongings from wherever they'd disappeared to. His backpack, phone, and clothes. All gone.

Groaning, Peter allowed his forehead to bang against the bottom of his locker. The sound traveled down the hallway in waves.

 _"Would you like me to screen you for potential head trauma?"_ Karen offered.

"Not now, thank you."

"Where were you?" Michelle asked him when he returned to class, his defeated expression enough to have piqued her interest. She lowered the journal she was writing in to stare at him. There were nothing but large, inked scribbles on the page.

"Restroom," he replied, averting her slightly disgusted expression and trying to focus on the assignment Mrs. Higginbotham had chalked out for them on the board. He found his vision to be blurring in and out from fatigue.

"And the clothes?"

Peter looked down at himself. After minutes of scrounging through the school's lost-and-found, the only decently smelling articles of clothing were an XS Midtown gym tee and a pair of baggy jeans with a horrendous series of holes. Patches of bare leg poked out from all angles.

"Peter," Mrs. Higginbotham started, blinking at him as she set the day's poem and a pink highlighter on his desk. "If I were a stricter teacher, I'd dress code you for those pants."

He tried pulling them back up, but without a belt, they were a futile cause. He swore he heard Michelle chortle from behind her journal.

* * *

"I swear, I have no idea where it went!" Peter groaned, bouncing on the mattress of his best friend's bed and trying not to bash his head on the ceiling. The birthday party cone was really making it difficult.

"Are you sure it was the right locker?" Ned asked from his desk. His back was turned to him, the bright light of his computer screen bending around his shoulders as he scrolled through the Wiki-How article he had just pulled up. _'Three Ways to Find Lost Objects.'_ "Things look a lot differently when you're hanging upside down."

"No, I promise, it was my locker," he replied, plopping back down on the bed. "I had my phone in there and everything! Mr. Stark's probably messaging me, and I can't even get to him."

He usually hadn't a problem with losing a backpack, as Aunt May had already grown accustomed to purchasing another, though her warnings were now starting to creep up on him. ( _"Next time you ask me, I'm buying you one from Target. With your face on it."_ The fact that Target now carried Spider-Man backpacks was beyond cool to him.) But things he considered valuable were in that backpack. His card for Mr. Stark was in there. And now it was missing.

"It says here you have to give yourself positive messages," Ned informed him from the article. " _In the moment of panic, it is easy to slip into self-loathing, blaming, or other self-defeating thought patterns…"_

"My sweater was in there," Peter murmured, twiddling his thumbs as he tried to keep his negative thoughts at bay. "The blue one? The one I wear with the collared shirts? I loved that sweater."

"Why were you wearing a sweater? It's like, ninety degrees outside."

"That's beside the point."

 _"Ned! Peter!"_ a female voice came from outside, following by a series of knocking. " _Halika dito!_ Come out here! Your Lola wants to sing with you two!"

"In a sec, mom!" Ned hollered back.

His grandma was currently celebrating her ninetieth birthday (how she still had the strength and fervor to navigate Queens was beyond Peter), and his entire family had flown in to squeeze into the Leeds' tiny two-bedroom apartment. Badly arranged karaoke backtracks reverberated off of the walls.

"I'm surprised we haven't received a noise complaint yet," Peter admitted, reaching down to nab a lumpia spring roll from the Styrofoam bowl sitting on the carpet. Ned merely shrugged.

"We invited the neighbors, too. They're probably out there somewhere," he said, taking a sip from his red solo cup. "Can't issue a complaint when you're given free food."

That he couldn't argue with. Ned's mom was an excellent cook. Most of the times, Peter dropped by just to eat, and she was always nice enough to send him home with a Tupperware dinner for Aunt May.

"Why don't you just search for your phone's location on your computer? I taught you how to do that already."

"I can't—May took away my laptop for a week because I skipped school."

"Right. How was that by the way?"

"So scary dude," Peter said from behind his hands. "It's like—how do you convince someone to keep living? It's like you're doing a sales pitch, with your product being _life._ Or you're a travel agent, destination _tomorrow._ " He let out a shaky breath and rubbed his eyes. "I'm just glad she's okay."

"I'm glad you're okay, too," his best friend replied. "Everyone thinks superheroes are like invincible or something, but I guess it's different when you know them. You don't even like the kiddie coasters at Coney Island."

"They have those…sharp turns," Peter protested.

Another point of contention regarding his duties as Spider-Man was his inherent fear of heights. Sometimes, he still dreamt of that Washington D.C. trip, fragments of his labored breathing and lightheadedness returning to him throughout the night. Upon later research, he found out that the Washington Monument was five-hundred and fifty-five feet tall. Why on earth would anyone _willingly_ climb that—on a roller-coaster or otherwise?

It was something he was trying to wrangle down, either by taking to the rooftops more often or convincing himself that amusement park rides weren't designed to kill people. Whenever he was far from the ground, he was also directly far from comfort, and he appreciated Aunt May and Ned's concern for him whenever they heard of his most recent lofty escapade.

"I wish you were at summer school with me, Ned."

"I...don't."

"You know what I mean."

"There's only a few more weeks left. And besides, Mr. Stark gets you out of class half the time anyways. Can he just sign you out of class like that—is he like one of your emergency contacts?"

"No." Though it wasn't a bad idea. He could just add him in for next semester's registration. "I don't actually think he knows I'm in summer school right now."

"Seriously?" Ned asked in surprise, swiveling around in his desk chair.

"Well, if Mr. Stark finds out, there's no way he's gonna let me do all this superhero business!"

"I'm surprised he lets you do it in the first place." His best friend shook his head in incredulity, turning back towards his computer. "Just make sure you get your English credit, because I don't think there's a summer school for the people that flunk out of summer school."

"I think it's called repeating the tenth grade."

"Exactly. And I like you and everything, but I don't want to sit with an underclassmen during lunch."

They'd discussed using Peter's Spider-Man abilities as a sort of call-to-fame on multiple occasions. It was undeniable that people would pay attention to the duo knowing that one of them was a nationally recognized superhero. But Peter had promised himself since the beginning not to use the suit for his own benefit. And they had gotten so used to Michelle reading at the end of the table that they couldn't just have her seat taken by some random kid. An overly crowded lunch table was overrated, anyways.

"Okay, what if I try and find your phone for you?" Ned offered, looking at him through the reflection in his screen. "I'll find you a location, and with your luck, the rest of your stuff will be there, too."

"Really?" Peter jumped up from the bed, accidentally kicking over the bowl of spring rolls. He cursed under his breath and tried to gather them off the floor in under five seconds or less. Ned's expression contained only the slightest distaste.

"Yeah, man. I'm the guy in the chair, remember? The Dennis Nedry? The Felicity Smoak?"

"Smoak's a bit of a reach, but yes, that would be great," Peter said behind a mouthful of vegetable and pork. "Thanks, Ned."

"You're welcome," he replied, lowering the screen of his laptop before standing up. "But not now. My mom wants us out there for karaoke. You know how my family is about this kind of stuff."

"Right," Peter nodded, brushing the crumbs from his fingertips before following Ned out the door and into the party. While he was never one to sing eighties ballads in front of an audience, his voice wasn't bad, which was really the only qualification for the Leeds' family karaoke. And if he were being honest, he'd do anything for Ned. Because he knew he'd do anything for him in return.

Ned was his best friend. And that was more than enough for Peter.

* * *

 **A/N: I really appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read, follow, favorite, and review this so far! I truly take all of your words into consideration and am so grateful to have you along the ride for this fic. There are a lot of aspects I find interesting with the MCU's version of Peter, such as his quirky interactions with the other characters and his fear of heights, and it's been entertaining to explore those dynamics here! Next chapter is in the works.**


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